Love and ranting
My Friday night killed, part I: “I don’t want to see a single hand in the air without a beer in it,” the Mayyors’ lead vocalist decreed while tossing Budweisers to the packed crowd inside a Midtown Craftsman bungalow’s dinning room. And so began the band’s riotous Friday night set (which, afterward—hell, even beforehand—the sauced mob had coined “legendary”). The poor chandelier violently swung back and forth, its lights flickering; the crowd surfed like it was Huntington Beach; some dude kept throwing his pillow case at the drummer—I’m told this was standard house-show etiquette, back in “the day.” Anyway, Mayyors has actually toned down its set, if that’s possible. Chris Woodhouse’s guitar screeched, sure, but with a tempered loudness and affecting harmony I hadn’t previously experienced, especially during between-song ambient moments. Tight, well-rehearsed—Mayyors is the real deal, having thrash aesthete to spare. (Nick Miller)
My Friday night killed, part II: Although many Sacramento music fans were at the Mayyors house show, those with a sweet tooth for pop biked in the rain to Capitol Bowl on Friday night, because the 300 Room show had two things that Mayyors couldn’t offer: bowling and cheeseburgers. The minimalist, two-piece Sac band Beware of the Knight kicked off the evening. From the East Bay, but led by a former Sacramentan (of the late FM Knives), Photobooth played a sweaty, catchy set. The drummer, who sported some tight vintage cords and, ahem, dressed to the left, was the first of many eye candies this show offered the ladies. Thee Makeout Party, from “Bananaheim,” offered up a perfect scoop of SoCal-style bubble-gum ice cream. Bass player Lee Noise’s between-song patter and heartfelt tributes to the Bananas had the locals in stitches. The Box Elders’ bass player (from Nebraska) was dressed like a twink Martian, in a fireproof silver jacket, teeny tiny cutoffs—and nothing else. This band is much scrappier than the smooth Makeout Party, and they have a few bona fide Redd Kross-esque gems. I’m confident I made the right choice: In March, Mayyors will play Cap Bowl with Eat Skull. (Becky Grunewald)
With friends like these: Before you get all antsy and violent, let’s just preface this with “Carlos Lopez is a friend.” But not the kind of friend whose house I’d sleep over at with the lights off. Nor would I take any food prepared by Mr. Lopez. And I’d never, ever leave him alone with my dear, dear grandma (R.I.P.).
But that’s beside the point. I’m talking about Lopez’s promotion tactics. Brutalizing the MySpace bulletin option isn’t exactly sophisticated marketing. For instance, check out his ad for a JCL Realty, Inc. that delicately reads: “ITZ CHEEPER TO BUY THAN TO RENT … THINK ABOUT IT.” Um, OK, I thought about it, but no thanks.
Anyway, this rant is not solely to make fun of Lopez but to address the growing sense of confusion in my brain. It starts out with me seeing shit on the Internet: bad spelling, weird marketing tactics, and my mind starts to blur. My vision gets cloudy. I start to bump into people at shows and shuffle around the streets, like a broken robot, mumbling, “What the fuuuck?”
Things aren’t making sense anymore. How many mix tapes can a rapper put out in a year? Why does everything sound like a Cheerios commercial? Who are all you white people from the suburbs dressed up like castoffs from I Love New York? Why aren’t you embarrassed of your faux-hawk yet?
Even more confusing are the letters I’ve gotten about writing too much about hip-hop. I mean, yeah, who wants to read about rap music all the time? Well, me. But how much hip-hop has been in the SN&R in the last 15 years? Call it reparations.
Which brings me to my last point: Thursday night at Image VIP Lounge was a benefit for Sacramento’s DJ Rated R (Ron Florente) who was flung from his tour van into a banana tree in the Philippines. He survived but was seriously fucked up, which was cause for this benefit show.
The place was packed. The Addict Merchants, Live Manikins and Righteous Movement opened up the crowd, and it was one of those times when you look around at all the people—there to support a fallen community member—and say, “It feels good to be a human.”
Of course, right when I step out of the club, a white kid with a do-rag and a gangsta walk swaggers around the streets like Ja Rule’s special cousin, yelling, “Yo, yo, yo,” and glaring at everybody who comes within a foot of him.
“What the fuuuck?!” (Josh Fernandez)